


Torden Stein

by cincoflex



Series: Helpmeet [3]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-16
Updated: 2012-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-07 21:51:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/435834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cincoflex/pseuds/cincoflex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A newly uncovered Rune stone holds more than one secret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another in a self-indulgent series. I couldn't resist. Love and thanks always to my Betas, VR Trakowski and Lovellama. If there are mistakes here, they're mine, not theirs!

“So how’s the big dick today?”

Cynara counted in her head to ten, aware of the man’s mockingly lecherous expression, which she could see out of the corner of her eye as he moved closer. The wind had died down, but the chill was still frosting her lungs with every breath.

Barentsøya.

Cold little island north of Norway, within the Svalbard archipelago. Not a place she’d ever thought she’d end up, but since the discovery of the Torden Stein, She and Sven-the-Fress had been here, tramping through the tundra day after day to study the newly uncovered rune stone.

It was, unfortunately, deliberately phallic-shaped. Like the Stora Hammars, the Torden Stein stood stiffly as a limestone erection on both the literal and metaphorical levels, huge and obscene, rising from a deep depression on the tundra that had been covered by snowdrifts and low vegetation until half a year earlier.

“Grunst, what do you want?” Cynara muttered, trying not to make eye contact. Loutish and greasy-haired, Doctor Rudi Grunst was the local liaison for the expedition team out of the Ancient Languages Center of Oslo, and an asshole to boot. He’d begun with belittling remarks about her clearly inadequate qualifications to study the stone and progressed through chauvinistic tripe to the current run of intensifying sexual harassment over the last three weeks. As one of two women on the team, Cynara shouldered the majority of it; Trini Hessel’s husband Bruno didn’t tolerate Grunst’s remarks in his presence.

So Rudi kept his most persistent provocation for her, and it was always worse here at the site. Cynara had given him the cold shoulder, had called him on his bullshit more than once, but he persisted, his pale eyes creeping her out.

“Oh I think you _know_ what I want,” he replied suggestively. “I know why you keep coming back to this huge . . . erection. Not getting it regularly from hubby, eh?”

“None of your business,” Cynara growled, trying hard to keep from swinging her clipboard at the man. It was annoying that Grunst was right to a certain degree of course; she hadn’t seen her husband in nearly two months, and hoped he was all right, insane god that he was.

“Oh but I care about the welfare of this team,” he replied, crowding closer to her, his smile particularly smarmy. “I feel it’s my responsibility to keep you . . . satisfied. A good roll in the hay might take some of the permafrost out of your panties.”

“You’re disgusting,” Cynara informed him dryly.

“Oh me? I’m a lover, trust me,” Grunst grinned. He moved in, but Cynara shifted out of the way, aware of his intentions. Early in the week he’d tried to grope her, but she’d managed to step on his foot before he could, and from this point on they’d engaged in this ongoing dance of aggression and avoidance.

“I’m sending emails,” she warned him. “Every day. To the director, to S.H.I.E.L.D. to everyone associated with this project.”

It was true, but ineffective, Cynara knew. Nobody on the European end seemed to care much, since S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn’t popular with them, and Fury hadn’t responded. Cynara figured he expected her to deal with harassment on her own; not an endearing response, but on the scale of earth-shaking events, a minor issue like this probably wasn’t a blip on his radar.

Phil would care, Cynara knew, but he was off to Portland and she didn’t want to bother him with it.

“Your word against my word,” Grunst shrugged with a malicious smirk. “Face it, nobody cares, and you’re stuck here for another month at least. Why not just admit you need a man and let me show you a dick bigger than this one?”

Cynara tensed, wishing one of the other team members would come strolling down the embankment and interrupt this scenario. She gripped the edge of her clipboard and wished she’d brought something more useful as a weapon. “I’m wife to the biggest dick _out_ there, Grunst; what you’ve got isn’t even a pimple by comparison.”

He glared at her, startled for a moment, and laughed unpleasantly. “Oh yes, the,” Grunst made quotation marks in the air with his fingers, “ _husband._ Biggest pile of bullshit I’ve ever heard. You’re not married, my fine icebox bitch. You may have a ring on, but you don’t have any photos or get phone calls or mail from anyone other than your mother. You might think pretending you’ve got a man keeps you safe, but I can see through your ruse. You need fucking.”

Grunst shot a hand out and grabbed Cynara’s wrist; she swung the clipboard, striking his cheek with a meaty smack that echoed in the air. She took three steps back, eyes locked on the man. Grunst absently rubbed his cheek, and instead of looking furious, smiled again.

“Oh I like it rough too—“

Cynara considered her options. Running would be difficult, given the scree all around them—he’d catch her quickly. Fight then. This she could do, oh yes. Just as she clenched her fists though, a shimmer just up the slope behind Grunst caught her eye, and within seconds a figure solidified there.

A tall, green leather clad figure with a golden horned helmet.

Cynara relaxed.

Grunst, unaware of the shift, gave another predatory laugh. “Want a head start, sweetie?”

“Oh yes, thank you,” came the un-amused voice from behind him. Grunst turned, his expression shifting from defiant to startled as he took in the majestic appearance of Loki.

“What the _hell?_ ”

“No, Hel’s my daughter—or will be at some point,” Loki corrected in a humorless tone. “For the moment I’m more interested in this imminent transgression. How _dare_ you, human?”

“Who the fuck are _you_?” Grunst demanded, his gloved hands balling into fists. “Some Viking re-enactor lost from your party?”

Loki strode forward and showed his white teeth, pretending to be vastly amused, but Cynara shivered and called out, “No, you can’t _kill_ him, husband! He’s an idiot but he’s not worth the trouble!”

“Your planet seems to be heavily infested with them,” Loki growled. “I have the _right_ , Wife.”

“Wife?” Grunst glanced over at Cynara, who sighed.

“Maybe by the laws of Asgard, but kill him and you’ll stir up trouble here.”

Loki circled around Grunst, and sneered at him. “Pathetic. You, an ambitious mortal let yourself fall under the stone’s influence and try to lie with the wife of a _god_. Such hubris! You deserve a slow and excruciating death, but since that cannot be done . . .” 

He flicked a hand towards Grunst, and a bolt of green energy sizzled out, engulfing the man and shocking him in the charge. Grunst gave a hoarse cry of pain and fell limp on the ground, still breathing, but barely.

Cynara looked at him and then Loki. “What did you do?”

“Nothing he did not deserve,” Loki snapped testily. “He has lost all interest in sleeping with _anyone_ ever again, and has no memory of today by your clemency, Wife.”

She took a deep breath and set her clipboard down next to the unconscious man, then walked over to Loki, looking up into his face. “Thank you.”

“Yes,” he agreed, face still stern. “The influence of the stone is too powerful on humans at this proximity. Even _I_ feel its persuasion, Wife. Why are you here, so close to something so dangerous?”

Cynara looked from Loki to the Torden Stein, confused. “Wait—the stone?”

Loki reached out and caught her chin, turning her face back to him, forcing her gently to meet his eyes again. “You _do_ see the shape? I did not think you were still so innocent, Wife. Yes, the stone holds Old Magic of the strongest kind, bringing forth the season of rut for all males within its realm.”

Cynara shuddered. “So that’s why he . . .”

Loki strode over and kicked Grunst in the ribs, making the unconscious body roll a little on the rocks. “His desire for you was there _before_ the stone magnified it,” he grunted. 

She skittered over, laying hands on Loki’s arm. “Enough. No harm’s been done.”

He turned to her, green eyes glittering. “He had no right.”

“He had no right,” Cynara agreed, trying to humor Loki. “And I’m so glad you showed up when you did. Thank you,” she repeated.

Loki shook his head. “No. Thank me _another_ way,” he told her softly, urgently. “The days since last I saw you have been long, Wife, and I have hungered for your warmth. Come with me to my realm; bed me.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Sven . . .”

“Will be fine,” Loki cajoled, sliding a hand around her waist. “We shall be gone only a short while . . .”

Cynara managed a wry smile. “Nothing is _short_ with you, Husband.”

“The truth is so sweet,” Loki replied in a gloat, “coming from you. Come, I will show you the second secret of the stone.”

“Second secret?” intrigued, she allowed herself to be urged along towards the Torden Stein.

Loki walked her around to the back of it, and reached out a hand, tracing one of the Pictish-looking circles up near the top. The chiseled edge glowed for a moment, and then the entire stone disappeared, becoming an open space.

Another dimension.


	2. Chapter 2

He ushered her through, and Cynara felt a rush of pressure against her, like air resistance. She flinched but Loki’s hand splayed across her back braced her, and they went forward, passing from the faint sunlight and chill of Barentsøya and into a glittering night on another icy vista.

A canyon.

Cynara looked around at the towering glaciers rising thousands of feet up, at the deep black of the sky above, strewn with stars in unfamiliar constellations. She shot a questioning look at her husband, biting her lips to keep her sudden surge of fear under control.

He wouldn’t have brought her here if it was dangerous, she told herself, but Cynara wasn’t quite sure she believed it. Loki took off his helmet, and a little breeze fluttered, making his dark hair flare at the nape of his neck. “What is this place?” Cynara asked, taking in the desolate grandeur all around them. The cold seeped through her clothing and left her chilled; her breath made plumes in the air.

“A . . . haven,” Loki told her, his tone soft. “A forgotten fortress now ours, Wife. Why do you think I gave you territory within YOUR world close to the where portals are?”

“You didn’t _tell_ me that at the time,” Cynara pointed out, slightly miffed and very cold now. Loki seemed impervious to the chill and strode forward, clearly confident that she would follow. Since there was no choice, she did. They trudged along through the windy canyon, Cynara staying in the windbreak created by the figure moving ahead of her. She wasn’t afraid, exactly, but being in a strange dimension with Loki as her only companion didn’t make for a great deal of confidence.

They covered nearly a quarter mile and suddenly he turned towards one rock wall of the canyon, twisting a hand towards it in an elegant gesture. The rock face slid apart to reveal twenty foot wooden doors carved with long serpents twisting around icicles. The carvings were weathered, and Cynara wondered how old they were—probably far more ancient than anything found on Earth.

Loki called out something in a strange language and in response the doors slid apart with a creaking sound. Cynara peered in, hoping like hell to get out of the wind, which had been freezing her ears.

“Wife,” Loki intoned, and before she could say or do anything, he scooped her up and tossed her over one shoulder in an ungainly fashion, driving the breath from her lungs as he carried her over the threshold.

“Put. Me. Down!” Cynara puffed, trying to breathe. Loki toted her in as if she weighed nothing, and it struck her how much strength he had despite his lean frame. He set her on her feet once more a few strides later, and she glared at him warningly. 

He grinned, not at all worried about her anger. “A tradition of many cultures is it not? You should be pleased I remembered.”

“I suppose,” she conceded, gazing around again. “At least we’re out of the wind.”

“Welcome to Ravenscroft,” Loki announced, and gestured at the long hall in which they stood. “We shall be safe here.”

It seemed an odd thing to say and Cynara shot him a sidelong look. “Safe? Are you in . . . danger?”

“I am _never_ in danger,” came his lofty reply. “Occasionally fools attempt to challenge my right to rule and there are forces that have yet to recognize my superiority over them.”

“None are stronger; some simply have unexpected cunning, is that the case?” she countered sweetly. Saving face meant much to him, Cynara knew, and she glanced around the hall to give him a moment. The walls were hewn blue ice reinforced with stone pillars, and underfoot the frosty paving stones glittered with embedded gems in swirling patterns.

“Occasionally I find an opponent with unexpected strategies,” Loki admitted grudgingly. “At the moment I have bested one such for possession of a device that gives me access to a hundred different worlds. With it I shall gain untold power and force the allfather to cede to me.”

Cynara said nothing; she knew from Thor about the enmity that festered within her husband to best Odin and worked to stay out of that crossfire as best she could. Generally she managed because her time with Loki was often short and centered on other matters of a more basic and lusty nature.

Soon though, she fretted, she might be forced to choose sides, and it would not be fun to stand against Odin.

“So you’re laying low for a while,” Cynara replied soothingly. “Biding your time before you strike.”

“Condescension is not an appealing quality in you, wife,” Loki replied testily.

Cynara shot him a dry look. “I wasn’t trying to talk down to you, Husband; I was merely postulating your plans. Is anyone else here?”

“Servants,” Loki waved airily. “Enough to do my bidding and manage this place. Enough of this—the night is cold and I desire you to warm me for a while. I have missed your skin and longed for your talents.”

It was a compliment of sorts, and Cynara tried not to roll her eyes even as she smiled. “I’ve missed you too; In fact I thought of you _every_ time I looked at the Torden Stein.”

This made his dimples deep as they bracketed his smile. “And they call ME silver-tongued. Come—to bed.”

Cynara wasn’t prepared when he scooped her up again, but she braced herself, allowing him to carry her forward through the blue ice halls as she clung on feeling both amused and pleased. Yes he was amoral and capricious and dangerous, but he was also at times a god of intimate passions and unique charms.

Impatiently Loki kicked open the far doors and they gave way under his boot, swinging open with a creak to reveal yet another cavern of pale blue ice. Cynara got the impression of great blocks, hewn and fitted like pyramid stones forming the walls. 

Then Loki tossed her and she gave a yelp, landing on a fur-covered bed and bouncing a few times from the force. He stood at the foot of the bed, watching her with a gleam in his eye, and Cynara felt a liquid rush of desire flood through her in response. She rolled to her knees and began to undo her parka, amused at how unsexy the maneuver was. “A little help, Husband?”

“Oh I like to watch,” he murmured back, doing just that. She wrestled her way out of her outerwear, and slowed when she’d kicked off her boots, feeling slightly foolish; could a cable knit sweater and Gore-Tex pants be considered even remotely sensual? Cynara looked up at Loki.

Apparently so. He stared at her, green eyes bright, lips parted slightly. “Go on,” Loki encouraged her softly. “You have my undivided attention.”

Cynara laughed. “It’s your lucky day—I wore nice underwear for once.”

Lazily she rose on her knees and pulled the sweater off over her head, grateful that she’d packed this particular tropical print Jezebel bra and panty set as a laundry emergency back-up. Cynara tossed the sweater at Loki, who batted it way without breaking his gaze at her.

“I approve,” he told her, his voice thick. “Heartily.”

“Thought you would,” Cynara agreed, running her hands through her hair and sighing. It dawned on her that she should have felt chilly with so much ice around, but the ambient air was comfortable. “Silk. Very warm.”

“Silk,” Loki repeated. He hadn’t moved at all, but Cynara sensed his tension in the set of his shoulders and the arrogant stance of his hips, and an odd pride filled her in knowing she was the cause of it.

She crossed her arms in front of her in a way that emphasized her cleavage as she fought a sense of embarrassment at putting on a show. Cynara had never thought of herself as any sort of a vamp, but Loki’s unwavering attention egged her on, and she gave a little moan as she winked at him.

Loki laughed, the low amused tone of a man being indulged. He waved a hand towards Cynara, and a second later she found herself rising up off the mattress. It took effort to appear relaxed; she wanted to flail her arms out but forced herself to stay still.

He gestured her forward, and when she’d drifted close, Loki bent, his face over hers as he slid a hand up one of her thighs towards the zipper of her pants. “I find myself too impatient, too driven by the stone’s influence to wait,” he whispered, and tugged the tiny tab down.


	3. Chapter 3

Cynara reached for his hand, laying her own over his. “You didn’t say please,” she told him, astonished to hear herself say it, but something deep inside her flared in impishness, in restless frustration.

He paused, staring at her in quiet surprise. Cynara hung in the air, literally and figuratively, waiting to see which way she should jump.

This was the god of mischief, principal sower of discord and master of unexpected twists, she knew. Unpredictable, rambunctious, capable of any number of reactions . . .  
“What?” he demanded his voice soft and disbelieving.

“Oh Husband,” Cynara replied, running with the odd impulse surging through her now in a quicksilver moment of daring. “Am I not your queen? Do I not deserve a little worship of my _own?_ ”

For a long moment Loki continued to look stunned, his lean cat face slightly perplexed. His fingers convulsed for a second under hers, and then he slowly withdrew them, pulling back fractionally. She sank to the mattress, freed from his control for the moment.  
Loki glared. “You dare to ask such a thing of me? You, a _human?_ ”

“Not _entirely_ human,” Cynara shot back, faintly annoyed and slightly terrified but in too deep now to back out. _What the hell had she been thinking;_ she mentally chided herself as she spoke once more. “The blood of the Jợtnar flows in my veins, Husband, and by it I claim the right to _your_ worship.”

Loki’s expression shifted, moving now from disbelief to lofty arrogance. He cocked his head. “Proof.”

She hesitated, but he snapped his fingers and a split second after the sound died, something curved and silver appeared in his palm, glittering the dim light. Loki held it up, and then tossed it from hand to hand, his smile tinged with just enough maliciousness to make him strangely handsome.

“This pretty lit-tle muzzle,” he purred, “was forged by Grer from silver mined out of Thyrmr’s mountain. Thor thought to restrain me with a very similar one, but he didn’t know that those of us born to the stones and ice can make the same do our bidding. If you _are_ of Jợtnar blood, then you should have no trouble escaping from it.”

Swiftly Loki threw the muzzle at her; it flew and clamped onto her jaw, shockingly cold against her lips, driving her back onto her elbows on the fur-covered mattress. Cynara gasped, but the sound was muffled behind the cold metal.

Loki laughed. She reached to touch her face, feeling the cool curve now fitted around her mouth, and a hard pang of panic set in. Cynara wanted to scream but fought the urge, working instead to even out her breathing and keep from flailing.

It was hard and made doubly so by Loki’s gleeful delight in her discomfort. He gripped the edge of the ice bed, leaning closer, his amusement fading to chuckles punctuating the cold still air. “And you think _me_ arrogant! Oh how you entertain me, Wife!”

Cynara shifted her jaw; the silver shifted with her, staying in contact with her skin. She forced her tongue out and touched the tip of it to the metal; a second later the muzzle dropped off of her face and into her lap. 

She couldn’t tell which of them was more surprised; herself or Loki, who gaped for a full three seconds before blinking. Seizing the advantage, Cynara picked up the muzzle and tossed it back to him. She had _no_ idea why the touch of her tongue had unlocked it, but certainly wasn’t going to admit that to Loki, who caught the thing and stared at it.

“Jợtnar blood,” she repeated, trying to make her tone firm. “On your knees and give me _my_ due.”

For a long second Cynara thought he would kill her. Loki’s green eyes blazed as he stood stock-still gaze locked with hers. She forced herself not to blink, noting absently that high rage only seemed to make him more handsome, and that despite his fury it was clear that his body still wanted hers very much.

Then, with great reluctance, he gracefully sank on one bended knee, still watching her. Cynara let a moment pass, and then climbed to the end of the bed. She was shirtless and her pants were unzipped, but that didn’t seem to matter at the moment. Even in this humbled position Loki was tall, but Cynara rose to her own knees and beckoned him forward.

She had no idea what she was going to do, but the sight of him submitting—grudgingly—brought forth a wave of something hot and angry within her, something raw-edged and hungry and sensual. Cynara took a moment to consider, and impatiently signaled for him to move closer, until his face was nearly touching her stomach. Looking down at him, she slipped a hand under his chin, lifting it.

Loki looked up at her, neither smiling nor angry; his face was a polite mask of indifference, and Cynara hesitated. If it hadn’t been for a slight twitch of his jaw under her touch, she would have stopped, but under her fingertips she felt him tremble ever so slightly, and that little tell spoke volumes to her.

Cynara was no stranger to mind games; she’d played enough of them on the derby track to read other people fairly well, and unless she missed her guess, Loki was in a ripe moment of confusion; torn between anger and fascination. She needed to move quickly and keep him off-balance, so she did. Cynara smiled, and lightly stroked his cheek, her nails brushing along his chin as she spoke in a slow, sweet tone. “Such a _good_ prince of Asgard you are.” 

He tried to speak, but Cynara anticipated this and quickly caught his lower lip with her fingers, giving a little warning squeeze of her nails. Loki froze, and she bent down to give his pointed nose a nip with her teeth before murmuring. “Shhhhhh, now is _not_ your turn, little prince. Yes, you ache, you _burn_ for me. I know your desires but you can stand the torment a little while longer, can’t you? Be good and I will give your rampant prick _tremendous_ pleasure, my sweet.”

It was a hell of a risk to taunt him this way, and Cynara knew it; at any moment Loki could rise up and destroy her with a casual flick of his hand. She’d seen what he could do on Earth, and suspected it was even greater on other worlds. Still, his response was encouraging; he gave a barely perceptible sigh and blinked, looking mutinous. Cynara took that as a victory and smiled.

“Disrobe,” she ordered sweetly as she slipped out of her slacks. “I long to see all of you bared to me since you are mine to touch.”

For a moment she wasn’t sure he would comply, but Cynara chucked him under the chin, and her firm touch seemed to do the trick; he straightened his spine and began to pull off his jacket. It took a while, and Cynara was aware that Loki’s slowness was a blend of defiance and showmanship as he unbuckled, untied and undid the various fastenings that held his armor together. Bit by bit smooth pale skin and lean muscles appeared. Loki kept his gaze lowered, but Cynara saw the twitch of impatience in his shoulders, the tensing there.

He was planning on pouncing the minute he was finished undressing, she realized, and if she didn’t stop him . . . .

Moving quickly, Cynara slithered out of her bra, tugging the tropical silk off and unhooking it. Startled, Loki watched and was unprepared when she twisted the garment into a long strand, and then leaned down, one hand caressing his ear. “Kiss me, prince of ice.”

It was a good one, lovely and wet. Loki was talented with his tongue and Cynara nearly forgot what she was doing, but at the last second pulled away and managed to bring the twisted silk up across his open mouth. She tied the ends tightly behind his head, murmuring, “Silver may not keep you silent, but silk will.”

He bit on the cloth consideringly, and the flare of annoyance in his fine emerald-eyed gaze shifted into heated interest; lust-tinged attention. Muzzled now, Loki looked both dangerous and alert; ready to play.

Cynara picked up one of the thin leather straps from his armor and stroked it. She was aware of being half-naked, of feeling both scared and exhilarated as she rose up from the bed and stood over Loki. Carefully she moved until she straddled one of his bare shoulders, and the press of it between her thighs against the silk of her panties felt sinfully nice. He turned to look up at her, and one hand moved to stroke her leg.

She flicked the strap down, wrapping around his wrist and yanking on it. “It is _my_ turn to touch, prince of Asgard, not yours. And touch you I _shall_ , my toy.”


	4. Chapter 4

There was something delightful about her bravado, Loki thought. She truly didn’t seem to fear him, and that alone was worth following simply because it was unusual. Loki was well-aware of his own lust, of how both the lingering glamour of the Torden Stein and his own persistent desire for his fair Sigyn had him on edge at the moment, but this little game . . . this held his attention.

If what she said was true—and her quick freedom from the muzzle seemed to prove it—then his bride indeed had noble blood in her veins, and that changed matters very much.

He looked up at her, waiting, noting the brightness of her eyes and savoring the warmth of her thighs around his shoulder. Loki waited, wondering what her next move would be, and hoping it would bring them closer to the bed. Already the scent of her whetted his appetite, and Loki chafed, wanting to scoop her up and have his way with her.

But this game . . . her confidence and seductive voice; the tiny moments of sweet pain . . . Loki found himself engrossed by these unexpected turns. He tightened his teeth on the silk between them and waited.

“On the bed with you,” Cynara purred at him unwinding the strap from his wrist, and Loki fought a smile. Clearly the stone was influencing her as well; probably more so, given how long she’d been exposed to it. He twisted, slipping his shoulder from her thighs and rose obediently, moving to the edge of the mattress and looking back at her, waiting for a further direction.

It came. “Hands and knees, my prince. No secrets from me.”

This was interesting. Loki did as directed, aware of his vulnerability now. The position left him rather more exposed than he felt comfortable with, and he toyed with the idea of resisting when he felt her hand touch his flank, stroking down his hip and curling around one cheek of his ass. Her fingers were warm, her touch far too light; almost skittish against his skin. Loki fought a shiver.

He tried to think, but now her nails were scraping little patterns, breaking his concentration. Loki held still, finding himself waiting for the next of her touches, trying to figure out what she was going to do.

“How very gifted you are, my pet,” she murmured, and he felt her fingers trail along the inside of one thigh to caress his balls. Loki flinched, but she was quicker, and hooked the fingers of her other hand into the muzzle, yanking it hard. “Now, now—no need to be afraid, not with stones the size of yours. So large and full, yes?”

He shot her a sidelong glance, irritated and yet flattered; not sure if he still wanted this to go on much longer, but when her hand slid up along his thick shaft Loki found himself fighting a groan muffled by the wet silk between his teeth. This, yes—his beloved’s touch, so firm and perfect . . . Her hand encircled as much of him as it could, squeezing lightly, and the pleasure made him throb against her palm.

“Stall-i-on,” he heard her murmur playfully. “I know you’ve been a mare once, but with a cock like _this_ . . .”

Loki rocked himself against her fingers, eager for more of her touch, wanting _much_ more of it, _yes_ —

Disappointingly she let her hand move from his prick to glide up his belly, and he groaned against his will, the sound muffled against the silk. The tease was going too far now; it was time to re-assert who _truly_ was in charge. He tried to turn, but a silver stab of pain flared through one nipple as his bride caught one in her nails and pinched it. HARD.

Loki growled, or tried to, flinching, but just as quickly she reached down and stroked his shaft again, a long slow caress that sent hot ripples of pleasure up his belly. She kept stroking him and Loki shuddered.

She was good, he dimly realized. _Much_ more cunning than he would have thought, the vixen, and his grudging admiration rose higher along with his prick. Pain and pleasure, doled out in unexpected increments, a balancing act designed to keep her footing sure and his uncertain.

When she climbed onto the mattress herself, Loki tried to shift, but her fingers still hooked in the gag just at the point along his cheek stopped him. His bride looked hungry indeed, and in this light her skin gleamed.

With desire, he hoped as she slithered under him, lying supine and smiling up into his face.

Was she ceding control to him, Loki wondered. Such a subservient position, surely a mistake. He could take her at any time now with no trouble—But before Loki could do anything, he felt her hands reach down between their bodies and toy with his prick again, drawing it up to lay against her belly, the heat of her skin making him throb.  
She pulled him down, taking his weight on her, legs tightly together and Loki realized his bride’s little game. His cock was trapped; sandwiched between their two bellies. 

“Heat and cold,” she crooned to him, her hair wild across the sheets, her smile dark. “You burn for me, prince, and I remain so cold and cruel to your hunger. That silver tongue does you no good behind a muzzle; all you have are those compelling eyes of yours and a prick that _every_ male envies.” She added teasingly, “even your _brother_ does!”

Loki growled, rocking himself against her velvet belly as a slippery puddle leaked from his shaft, wetting the rub between them. The warmth and pressure made him stiffen further, and he could smell his Sigyn’s desire, that perfume of salt and peach that lay on her glowing skin.

She couldn’t _stop_ him now, he gloated. His was the greater strength and weight; she was _under_ him now and for all her seductive words, HE could take this pleasure. It was a shame he couldn’t kiss her, but . . .

His bride lifted her head and bit him. BIT his neck, her teeth nipping hard while she raked her nails on his ass! Loki bellowed against the silk, and what little control he had vanished under this combined assault, the unexpected pain driving his glittering climax forward in hard animal thrusts of blind, overpowering pleasure as his seed sprayed thick and hot on their bellies, smearing between them, wet and steaming.  
He slumped on her, nostrils flaring, mind blank as his body shuddered in the last of his lust dribbled down the bones of her hips, and Loki lay quietly on his bride, stunned. No thoughts came to mind, nothing coherent at all except the most basic sensory feedback and an overwhelming sense of release.

Odd and quiet freedom.

After a long while one hand stroked his hair, the other moved to untie the muzzle, pulling it from his slack mouth. “Mmmmmm. Did I ever tell you about the research paper I did for my psychology of sex class back in college? Sixty pages about paraphilias, including narratophilia and algolagnia, not that you care right now. You’re a god, Husband and I respect that, I do—but I’m not without powers of my own.”

He lifted his head and looked at her. His bride’s hair was as wild and frizzy as ever, her smile sweet, but her brown eyes held a hint of ruby in their depths. Loki knew that tint, had seen it in his own.

“Now kiss me,” she whispered to him, “and sleep. Your turn is next.”

He took a deep breath, aware of the tangled mess the two of them made in the here and now, the stickiness and smell, the aftermath of the physical world so far from the strange place they’d just shared mentally. 

“My queen,” Loki replied, his smile against her mouth. “Rest. You are going to _need_ it.”


	5. Chapter 5

The thermal pool was steaming, and Loki slid himself into it, savoring the heat. Overhead the glittering stalactites sent sparkles dancing throughout the cavern walls with eerie beauty.

He felt a rare sense of invigoration that had little to do with the immediate vicinity, and owed much to the woman now shoulders deep in the water before him. His Sigyn had her hair twisted up in some complicated knot, her eyes closed in bliss.

So deceivingly delicate, he thought with amusement. From the first Loki had assumed she was merely human, had given her gentle consideration for her mortality. His bride had been an . . . accessory. Pretty and distracting, a private pleasure in the grand scheme of things. But now, this unexpected revelation of her noble blood made him re-consider both his bride’s potential and her place in his far-reaching plans.

He moved through the steaming water towards her, feeling predatory and playful by turns. She didn’t open her eyes, but Loki could tell she sensed him when she smiled.  
“Husband,” came her murmur. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome,” Loki replied pleasantly, “for whatever pleases you. Certainly you please me, and that is an achievement in itself. Tell me how you overcame the muzzle.”

She opened her eyes and looked at him, her gaze direct but troubled. “I don’t know.”

Loki moved behind her in the water, cupping her shoulders with his hands. “Magic?” he murmured in a thoughtful tone. “Surely not.”

“Genetics, I think. The doctors said I’m one tenth Ice Giant. Or Giantess,” she told him, giving a sigh of appreciation as his fingers kneaded her muscles. “Somewhere years back someone from another realm came a’courting.”

“I can see why,” Loki whispered. “So your greater essence came through and set you free.”

“ _One_ of my essences,” his bride replied tartly. “You have to accept them both, Husband.”

“Ah but you have to admit that in this case, the one that permitted you to escape was _more_ beneficial, true?” he prodded, moving closer to her in the water.

“ _This_ time,” she acknowledged grudgingly. “And it was hysterical to see you so flummoxed. I wish I’d taken a photo of it.”

Loki grumbled slightly. “Not every plan goes off in the anticipated way, and it’s a fool who doesn’t admit that. Your heritage took me by surprise, yes, but ultimately I find it to be in your favor, Wife. The blood of the Jợtnar makes it possible for me to present you to my mother.”

Under his kneading fingers he felt her tense; not an unexpected reaction. Loki lightened his touch, and bent to kiss the lovely curve between her shoulder and neck. Being this close to her was a pleasure, and he pressed himself against her spine.

“Your . . . . mother?”

“Yes,” he murmured, his breath against her wet skin. “Frigga will welcome you with open arms.”

“What about your father?” she asked, and Loki felt a flash of complicated emotions as he tried to picture Odin’s reception. 

“One parent at a time,” he replied slowly. “Matters between us are . . . difficult at best, and it would be unfair to put you in such a situation, my snowflake.”

“Snowflake?” She turned in his arms, her expression wryly amused at the term. Loki smiled down at her, arching one eyebrow.

“Yes well ‘Ice Queen’ certainly does not apply, not after the degree of heat you’ve demonstrated time after time.” 

“I’m wise to you,” his Sigyn replied, but she smirked deeply enough to make her dimples show. “Husband mine.”

He wasn’t quite sure what this meant but took it as a compliment it most likely was, and kissed her nose. “Good. Let us dine then, and discuss matters great and small. I find myself cultivating a few appetites.”

His bride stiffened and suddenly looked concerned. “Sven! Oh God it’s been _hours!_ He’ll get lost and frozen!”

Nonplussed Loki blinked. “Our shaggy little son of the frozen tundra? He may become lost, but frozen, never! However if his well-being concerns you--” Loki whistled and instantly a huge biped in thick grey and white fur appeared at the rim of the pool. He was amused to see his bride give a yelp and duck lower in the water even as he spoke to it.

“Pass through the portal and find the pet. He will be nearby. Try not to be seen. Hurry.”  
“Yes, Lord-Master of Ravenscroft,” growled the beast, who lumbered away on heavily padded feet. Loki turned back to the woman in his arms.

“What was _that?_ ” she demanded.

“Håkon is the first guard of Ravenscroft. One of the Chuchunya who wandered through the portal millennia ago and have lived here since. I did tell you there were servants here, didn’t I?”

“You did,” she grumbled. “I just didn’t know they were Yeti.”

“This world is more accommodating to them than _yours,_ ” Loki felt compelled to point out. He reluctantly moved away from her and climbed the stone steps leading out of the pool; tempting as it was to stay and begin the slow quest to put his bride through her paces, that delicious pleasure would have to wait for a while. He glanced back to catch her admiring his naked body, and the expression on her face was enough to send a surge of desire through him.

“Soon,” Loki warned her quietly. “I have plans for you.”

Even from this distance he could see her squirm and he turned before she could see his smile.

The meal was somewhat simple compared to any standard dinner on Asgard, but there was enough of it to feed at least thirty. Loki hoped Håkon and his staff would finish off the majority of the dishes, which looked to be fish of various types. At the end of the long table his bride was taking apart a prickly vegetable and nibbling at it with elegant manners. He stopped a moment to watch her, struck by how amazing her skin looked in the light of the blue ice. 

She looked up at him and cocked her head. “Yes?”

“You . . . are beautiful,” Loki told her, amused at his own observation. “More so than when I first wed you. You’ve changed.”

The face she made was less than pleased, but she wiped her fingers on a napkin and sighed. “Sometimes you’re very flattering, Husband, and sometimes you’re just . . . provoking as _hell._ Do you realize we’ve been married not even a year and I still have no idea who you really are? That I have no clue about your childhood and your experiences, your dreams and wishes and all those things couples are supposed to know about each other before getting married?”

He waved a careless hand. “Before marriage? How disappointing. Is not the discovery of a mate’s personality part of the challenge and pleasure of being wed?”

“Challenge yes,” his bride muttered. “Sometimes I’m very aware that the _only_ reasons you and I are hitched are because I happened to have a legendary name and because I got cut by your weapon. Beyond those two minor points, our paths would probably never have crossed, Loki Laufeyson.”

This was slightly unsettling, and Loki considered it for a moment, frowning. “Marriages have been built on far less I assure you. And you never truly loved that one you were considering before me, the roly-poly badger with the nasty body odor and pathetic under-endowment.”

She looked both annoyed and embarrassed, which amused him since it meant he was clearly right. Feeling smug, Loki continued. “Had I not claimed you for my own, you would be trapped in a union that gave you no honor or pleasure or . . . entertainment.”

“Entertainment,” his bride murmured dubiously. “S.H.I.E.L.D bursting in while we’re having sex. Giving me a musk ox as a pet. Having a _dragon_ show up at my family’s barbeque.”

“Precisely!” Loki beamed. “Think of the stories we shall have to share with our children.”

“Oh I don’t _think_ so,” his Sigyn shook her frizzy head. He loved the texture of it, the way the many curls caught the light when she did that. “Tell me, what on Earth makes you think I want kids or that I’ll be _any_ sort of good parent?”

“Because you cared enough to make me bring someone back from the _dead_ ,” Loki told her in a low tone. “Someone whom you didn’t love yourself but knew was vital to others. That degree of caring and courage for a mere colleague assures me that you _will_ be a mother to be feared.”

She looked stunned by this, and Loki took the opportunity to rise from the table and strode over to her, his gaze on hers. When he reached his bride, he held out a hand and she laid hers across his palm without hesitation. Loki lifted it to his mouth and kissed it. “A challenge,” he repeated. “A pleasure. Captivation for a lifetime if that little interlude in our bedroom is to be believed.”

“Silver tongued to the last,” she told him, but Loki saw the heat in her gaze, felt the beat of her pulse along her wrist. He pulled her up from the table and into his arms.

“There are ways into Asgard that Heimdall knows not; through one I am bringing you to meet my mother.”


	6. Chapter 6

Cynara wasn’t prepared for the majestic beauty of Asgard. She’d always assumed that it was merely a place with nicer mead halls and thick stonework as depicted in some of the eighteenth century illustrations, but the breathtaking vistas left her speechless.

Loki however, took it all in stride, waving a careless hand around as he pointed out the sights in a matter-of-fact way. “The Gilded Pools, the Well of Urd, what’s left of the Bifrost,” he muttered. “I should take you through the Grove of gem trees if we get the chance; I think the opals are ready to harvest.”

“Gem trees?” she echoed, trying to keep up with him. It wasn’t easy; not only did Loki have a long stride, but she also was stuck holding up the hem of the dress he’d provided for the visit. Cynara felt as if she was caught in some elaborate Ren fair and wasn’t totally comfortable in the long green velvet gown she wore.

“Yes,” Loki told her in a distracted voice. “That’s what happens to buried treasure here. We need to pass through that little door off to the left . . .” They approached a small alcove with a cunningly hidden portal set within it. Loki used his gold staff to tap the edges and it swung open a little creakily. “An old escape route; long forgotten by most.”

“But not by you,” Cynara murmured with reluctant approval. “You really know your ins and outs, don’t you?”

“A reputation is a lovely thing to live up to sometimes,” he flashed her a bright grin before taking her hand and leading her into the passage behind the door. It was dark and dusty but small circles of light lit along the walls as they stepped forward. Cynara thought the tunnel smelled of dust and dank but she trailed behind her husband, wondering how many cobwebs he was catching with the horns on his helmet.

Gradually they reached a series of stairs cut into the stone and after climbing them Loki pulled her up against him, giving Cynara a brief smile. “The hall outside leads to the terrace of my mother’s apartments. She should be there at this time of day.” He dropped what was meant to be a quick reassuring kiss on her mouth, but it lingered, and Cynara gave a soft moan of pleasure.

“None of that,” Loki warned with mock-sternness. “Two horns are all I want to be evident when standing before my mother!”

“Oh all right,” Cynara sighed. “Fine.”

Loki pushed a small design carved in the wall and the door swung open. Beyond it was a marble floor and gilded walls stretching up to intimidating heights. Cynara glanced around but she and Loki were the only ones in sight.  
He stepped out, his hand warm in hers. “This way.”

The room at the end of the hall had lovely lattice gates of gold and silver vines; through them Cynara could see a broad terrace with some furniture on it. She let Loki herd her through and as they entered a slender woman with hair the color of ripe wheat turned from an elaborate tapestry frame. Catching sight of Loki she smiled, her expression lighting up her elegant face as she held out her arms.

“Loki my child!” came her soft and delighted call. 

Cynara held back a moment, letting go of his hand so that he could glide over and wrap the woman in a light and affectionate hug. The woman cupped his thin face in her hands and studied his expression with the unmistakable gaze of a doting parent. “You’re less gaunt dear; I approve.”

“Yes, well I’ll never be the circus bear Volstagg is but I’m not starving I assure you,” Loki murmured. Cynara heard genuine affection in his tone and for a moment felt a pang of awkward jealousy. A second later the woman spotted her, eyes going wide. Loki followed that gaze and beamed.

“Mother, I am wed. This is Cynara Sigyn, my bride.”

Cynara took a deep breath, not sure whether to curtsey, nod, hold out a hand or make some other gesture, but all of that was swept away as Loki’s mother reached out and lifted her chin.

“You are beautiful, little one,” Frigga murmured sweetly. “Midgardian, but there is a hint of ruby in your eyes that tells me of another bloodline, yes?”

“Yes,” Loki spoke up proudly. “The Jợtnar in her is clear to those who look for it is it not?”

“A lovely blend,” Frigga nodded. “Strong and vital. Your babies are going to be proud and strong.”

“I . . .” Cynara started to protest, but something in Frigga’s eyes, a sudden glimpse of hope shining through a faint melancholy made her change her words. “. . . thank you.”

“Well-mannered as well,” Frigga smiled. “I definitely approve. It’s well past time we had children running through the halls around here—genuine children and not just boyish warriors staging mock battles amid the statues and braziers.”

Cynara glanced at Loki, who seemed lost in some amused memory, then turned to face her mother-in-law again. “It’s very nice to meet you. As for children, I suppose . . . . in time,” she murmured, feeling a weird twist in her stomach. Not quite resignation as much as acknowledgement of a sense of pre-destination. Fate’s quirky tickle as it were. “It’s not a sure thing.”

Frigga gave her a long compassionate look that made Cynara feel as if the other woman could read her mind. “Love and duty; sometimes we are drawn and sometimes we are pushed, I know. However since you have captured my son’s heart, you are already extraordinary. Loki is . . .” she looked over at him with a gentle lift of one eyebrow, “capricious and occasionally stubborn, but there is a good heart within him.”

Cynara hesitated, thinking of all the death and destruction in Manhattan, all the lives put into peril there. She managed a twisted smile as she spoke. “Yes he does have an . . . interesting reputation. You said it was past time . . . aren’t there children here already?”

An awkward pause filled the terrace and Loki drove it off by moving to Cynara’s side and cocking his head as he answered her question. 

“Actually, no. One of the prices paid for our longevity here is a limited span to our fertility. Whatever oats I sow, wild or otherwise must be done in these few fleeting years.”

Cynara looked to his mother, who nodded sadly. “The truth, and not a happy one I fear. The chances of conception are infinitely better with mates from outside of Asgard of course, and with both Loki and Thor within their season I am looking forward to weaving lamb’s wool soon.”

“A few short years?” Cynara repeated dubiously. “And I thought humans were constricted by their biological clocks. So it’s not just a race with Thor to see who can produce an heir first?”

“Oh it’s that too,” Loki acknowledged with a grin. “While Odin may have chosen his golden son as future king, there is always a chance that the path of time before us may shift to a darker road.”

His mother shot him a dry glance, but the curl of her mouth took any rebuke from it, and Cynara could see that Frigga understood her son very well.

“I’m not going to be a pawn in any power struggles, no. That’s out, Husband. Besides, you already have children.”

Loki had the grace to blush, and in doing so looked even more beautiful. “Sleipnir is as fine a son as any I could wish to have but . . . well he IS but a colt.”

Frigga’s mouth blossomed into a smile. “At the moment, he is also his grandfather’s favorite, although he’d never admit it. Still, a horse, no matter how wonderful he is cannot rule Asgard. It’s high time my son curbs his wilder nature and lives up to the duty of a king.”

Cynara frowned. “But Fenrir, Hel, and Jörmungandr—“

“They are with their mother Angrboða ,” Loki admitted, looking slightly shamefaced and sad. “Secreted away and beyond my reach for now. She took my seed to fulfill prophecy, not for love.”

“What’s done is done,” Frigga murmured quietly. “Angrboða will raise them as destiny decrees in her own way. At the moment there are other matters to consider---”

A resounding crash broke into Frigga’s words and Loki spun, staff at the ready to defend both women. Cynara scrabbled for a sidearm she didn’t have in the long dress and gritted her teeth, tensing. The fancy doors of the terrace glowed and vaporized under a bolt of green lightning, and Cynara saw her husband step forward to defend them, his stance light but ready.

“Who dares attack?” He called out, menace in is voice. 

The answering roar made Cynara step back, and Frigga took her arm. She tugged, and for a moment Cynara was torn between staying by Loki and following her mother-in-law down the length of the terrace to another door.

The decision was moot however when a wave of white surged through in front of Loki, enveloping him and rushing on, hitting Cynara and Frigga as well. The shocking chill of the ice, the utter soul-numbing coldness drove the breath from her, and Cynara felt herself drop into blessed unconsciousness even as the burn of the cold seeped through her.


	7. Chapter 7

She regained consciousness slowly, aware of her chill even as she began rise through the sludge of thoughts, and with it came a bone-deep ache that forced a few tears from her eyes.

Cold. Cynara had _never_ been this cold before, and she forced her eyes open, staring upward at a high arched ceiling of gold and marble, hung with brazier lamps. She took a breath that sent shudders through her body, and the light shifted as someone leaned over her.

“My love,” came Loki’s low and urgent whisper. “You _live._ ”

She blinked slowly, trying to focus, aware that the mattress under her was heated, that the velvety grey fur throw over her was heavy, and that under it she wore . . . nothing.

“Shit,” Cynara croaked. “W-what happened?”

“We were attacked by a kajsa,” Loki told her with a growl. “A wind troll. Heimdall has no defense against such a monster, and they rarely move against Asgard anyway, since they are creatures of the elements. Mother and I were able to withstand the assault, but unfortunately you were more severely affected.”

As he spoke, Loki brushed her frizzy hair back from her forehead and studied her face. Cynara wished he wouldn’t; she felt achy and stiff, and a massive headache pounded her temples. “Kajsa—a living . . . snowstorm?”

“Yes,” Loki murmured. “And this one was hunting you.”

“ME?”

“You,” he sighed, looking worried and amused at the same time. “All your exposure to the Torden Stein has charged you with much allure, Wife. Not only do _I_ desire you, but so does every male within your influence.”

Cynara laughed weakly, thinking back to Grunst. “Great. So I’ve become . . . a dick magnet.”

“Crudely put, but accurate, I fear,” Loki murmured, bending to brush his cheek against hers. “Your glamour is undeniable, and even now difficult to resist. Coming to Asgard has . . . intensified it. Fool that I am I forgot that without true consummation it would be so.”

“You’re just saying that,” came her weakly amused accusation. “Oh husband of the great big horns.”

“Would that I was,” Loki smiled at her. “Currently we are in the Múspellsheimr Chamber, all the better to thaw you out and restore you to yourself; Mother insisted.”

Cynara struggled to sit up, looking down at the mattress, which seemed to be a bed of coals. She yelped, flinching, but oddly the heat was mild under her ass. “What the hell?”

“A bed of molten rock,” Loki smirked. “Had you been strictly human it would not have been possible, but the Ice Giant in you has saved you more than once today.”

“So it seems,” Cynara murmured, shaking her hair. This was a mistake on two counts; it made her head ache, and the action drew Loki’s _very_ interested gaze to her newly bared chest. She clutched the fur coverlet and pulled it up, much to his disappointment. “Look away.”

“So beautiful and so cruel,” he murmured with a sigh that made her bite her lips in amusement at her husband’s melodramatic moment.

“I learned from the best—at least the cruel part,” she told him. “Any chance of getting some ibuprofen or acetaminophen? My head is killing me.”

“You need Angelica tea,” he told her, and produced a golden goblet that steamed a bit. “With honey.”

Cynara looked beyond him to the table which held all sorts of food and drink in the overabundance she associated with Asgard. “Isn’t all that a bit . . . overkill?”

Loki looked slightly confused. “Is it? I know we have no Fruit Loops or hot sauce, but mother insisted you had a little something on hand when you awoke.”

“That’s very nice of her,” Cynara sipped the tea, which smelled a little like anise. “She’s a sweet lady.”

“That she is,” Loki agreed, “and she finds you to be charming as well, which pleases me.”

“It’s good,” Cynara agreed, wondering if she was now a new pawn in the game against Odin. “So’s this; I feel better.”

“Perhaps _I_ should check how you feel,” Loki offered, sliding a hand over the coverlet, caressing her thigh through it. “Hmmmmm. I think this must be removed for a clearer assessment.”

Cynara tried not to snicker. “One simply does not partake of nookie at the in-laws.”

“I do what I _want,_ ” Loki assured her, a dangerous gleam in his eyes, his long fingers clenching around the coverlet. Before Cynara could wrestle it from his grip, the sound of approaching footsteps made the both of them glance towards the doors. Loki released his grip, letting his touch relax gently. “Oh this _shall_ be interesting!”

“Interesting in what way?” Cynara demanded, tucking the fur more securely around her. The doors opened before Loki could speak again, and two beings in the archway caught her immediate attention, leaving her speechless for a moment.

One was a tall broad-shouldered man with flowing grey hair and a gold patch over his right eye. He used his good eye to gaze into the room, and Cynara felt the undeniable majestic power of that stare, the weight and dignity in it.

The other was a young grey colt with a fuzzy bush mane and the most liquidly joyful eyes she’d ever seen. He was leggy, Cynara realized; very leggy.

Approximately _twice_ as leggy as a colt should be.

Before Odin could speak, Sleipnir cantered over, tail swishing, and thrust his little muzzle towards Loki, happy whickers sounding loud in the chamber. Her husband reached out and stroked the colt, his long hands gliding over the gangly baby. Loki neighed softly, a deep and pleasant greeting from deep in his throat that made Sleipnir bounce a little on his many hooves, stubby tail flicking back and forth.

As Odin strode over, Cynara wasn’t sure who to watch; the Allfather or the delighted colt. She settled for keeping everyone in her sight, and pulled the coverlet higher. 

“Welcome, fair daughter of Midgard, bride of my son Loki,” Odin intoned majestically. The effect was slightly ruined as Sleipnir accidentally stepped on his grandfather’s foot, but Odin ignored it.

“Thank you Allfather, ruler of Asgard and father of my husband Loki,” Cynara replied politely. “Forgive my rudeness in not rising.”

“You have no need of it,” He told her. “Any maid who can survive a Kajsa has the right to recover at her leisure.” To Loki Odin added, “Though our trials are not through, I give reprieve and sanctuary on the occasion of your wedding, my son.”

“Thank you . . . Allfather,” Loki managed stiffly. “By grace of my Sigyn I accept this _momentary_ pardon.”

Odin looked slightly mournful and let his one-eyed gaze linger on Loki a moment before looking to Cynara again. “Daughter, I offer you a gift as well; one befitting the bride of the silver tongued one.” He reached out one hand and lightly touched Cynara’s forehead, his fingertip tracing a design there. For a moment it gleamed on her skin and then vanished, as if sinking in. Cynara blinked as Odin let his hand drop, his smile paternal.

“The knowledge you have sought all your life,” he murmured quietly. “Every rune or speech of the Old Worlds is yours now.”

Cynara squeezed her eyes closed, feeling a sharp spike of pain behind them. The sensation faded almost instantly, and she drew in a shaky breath, aware of an odd feeling circling her mind; a sensation of thousands of tiny tiles falling into place, making mosaics in her head.

She looked up at Odin, aware of the enormity of the largess, and swallowed hard. “Th-thank you, Allfather,” Cynara whispered. “I will try to be worthy of your generosity.”

Loki rose, one hand still resting on Sleipnir’s neck. His smile was slightly twisted, and Cynara knew he was torn between pride and resentment even now. “Your generosity to my bride is . . . appreciated.”

“Unions are to be celebrated,” Odin replied, and strode out of the chamber, leaving everyone silent behind him.


	8. Chapter 8

A few hours later Loki insisted they leave; Cynara felt better, but he slipped an arm around her waist, supporting her against his side as they passed through gilded halls. Sleipnir trotted on the other side of her, and Cynara patted him reassuringly, having won the little colt over with tender caresses and soft words. 

Loki looked . . . distracted, and Cynara wondered if he was angry about Odin’s gift. Sometimes it was difficult to tell what was going on behind that lean mask of a face. They turned and made their way down a curving flight of wide steps, descending until they reached a round chamber with heavy stone panels along the walls. Cynara looked again, startled that the runes on them were clear to her now, and that she could easily read them.

“Husband,” she murmured, “Why are we here in a . . . meditation chamber?”

“It is one of the few places Heimdall passes by,” came the reply. “Sleipnir—“

Cynara watched as Loki dropped to one knee and cuddled the colt quietly. Sleipnir snuffled along his hair and face, tongue and fuzzy lips making soft little sounds.

“Best of horses,” Loki whispered, “my brave little son. Mummy is so _very_ proud of you.”

She closed her eyes, trying to fight the surge of tenderness welling up inside her throat. This Loki—loving and vulnerable—was almost too much to take. 

“Stay here and be good; I will be back soon,” came his reassurance. “We will run through the meadows and I may even bring a friend to play with you.”

When Cynara opened her eyes she saw Sleipnir looking at her expectantly. She reached to stroke his muzzle once more, and his tail spun in happiness. “Sweet baby,” she told him. “You _are_ a darling.”

Satisfied with this, the colt trotted back, nearly tripped over his own spindly legs, and pricked his ears up. Loki gave a deep sigh. “Off with you, child of my heart. Stay with the Allfather and be . . . good.”

Sleipnir gave a little snort and moved up the wide steps reluctantly, stopping mid-way to peek his head through the railings. Loki blew him a kiss and turned to catch Cynara looking at him. Impulsively she slipped her arms around him, burying her face against the pale gleam of his throat.

They stood quietly entwined until the sound of Sleipnir’s hooves faded away and all was quiet once more. Cynara sniffled, and looked up at her husband. “He’s wonderful. _You_ are wonderful with him.”

“He is easy to love,” Loki admitted. “There is no deceit nor malice in Sleipnir.”

“Yes,” Cynara agreed. “I didn’t realize how much you love him.”

Loki looked proud. “He is my son.”

“He certainly has your legs,” Cynara murmured in a soft tease. 

That brought her a quick grin, and Loki laughed. “That he does. Would you be agreeable if I brought Sven-the-Fress to Asgard at some point?”

Before Cynara could make some comment about astral play dates, the two of them vanished from the chamber in a flash of green light.

 

Ravenscroft was still as bleak and beautiful, even in the faint light of day. Cynara caught only a glimpse of the impossibly blue sky above in the canyon before Loki rapped the doors for entrance. This time Håkon opened them, and Cynara noted that his glowing eyes registered amused intelligence as he loomed over her.

“Lord-Master, Lady-Mistress,” he growled. “Welcome home.”

“Thank you . . .” Cynara replied, both surprised and touched to be greeted. Loki had pulled off his helmet and handed it to a smaller furry figure, adding his cape and golden staff before turning to Cynara and taking her hands.

“Your mistress and I are not to be disturbed until we ring for you,” came the quiet order. “Attend to the pet; other than that, you are free to entertain yourselves.”

“Yes, Lord-Master,” Hakon agreed, and moved out of the main hall, his furry bulk making no sound as he padded away. Cynara watched him go and then shot a side-long glance at Loki, who was smirking.

“You look like trouble.”

“Have I ever looked like anything else?”

“Actually, no,” Cynara laughed. He slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her to him, holding her gaze for a moment before bending closer, his breath warm against her face.

“Bride of mine, you have _no_ idea how worried I was when the Kajsa hit you,” Loki sighed. “To lose you now would break that stone within my chest.”

“I’m fine,” Cynara assured him in as quiet a voice. “I may not be a god like you, but I’m tough, Husband. It takes a lot to sweep me off my feet.”

“Forgive me, but I feel the need to make certain for myself,” he purred, brushing one cheek against hers as he spoke. “Slowly, and thoroughly. It may take time and patience for me to . . . satisfy myself.”

“I can take _anything_ you can dish out, Loki Laufeyson,” Cynara put a throaty little growl to her words. “An-y-thing.”

Very slowly he smiled, his lips curling up, his dimples appearing as he did so. It was more than a smile; it was a promise of delicious temptation, and seeing it, Cynara felt a rush of heat below her stomach.

“Let us see then,” Loki told her simply, and scooped her up.

\--oo00oo--

He carried her down the hall to the bedchamber, fighting the urgent tension within himself as he did so. Loki steeled his will against his own impatience and gently set his bride on the fur coverlet, seating himself on the edge as he reached for her hands. They were cool, but her fingers squeezed his reassuringly.

“You will do nothing without my consent,” he told her. “Not a move without direction. Here in this chamber I _am_ your lord and master, my pet. Do you agree?”

His bride looked at him and smiled, saying nothing. 

Loki cocked his head, smiling back. “Smart girl. Yes, you may speak and tell me your answer.”

“Yesssss,” she murmured, her tone saucy.

“Oooh insouciant are we? The correct reply is ‘yes, Husband,” he told her as he reached for the small zipper along her ribs. “In all replies you will address me as such. Now, lie still and let me attend you.”

Again she kept silent, shooting a flirtatiously defiant look at him, and Loki drew in a breath, feeling a rush of pleasure at how quickly she rose to the Game, how perfectly she met his bravado with her own.

This was going to be fun, he realized. She was showing him that she was more than ready to play, and his pulse quickened in happy anticipation. Loki peeled away the dress, letting his touch linger along his bride’s newly exposed skin, and when she was left naked, he made a show of carrying her clothing across the room and setting it aside. Having her watch him was as much a part of the game as anything else, and he turned to look at her lying on the fur spread, pleased with what he saw.

She was lushly built and unmistakably female, her contours and curves highlighted in the blue glow of the cavern around them, and Loki held himself still as he studied her long body. When the need to move became too strong, he stepped forward, moving to the head of the bed and leaning down a bit, watching her shiver with chill and anticipation.

“Such a dilemma we have, my pet. You look cold again, but there is nothing at hand to warm you,” Loki mock-sighed. It was amusing to see her from this angle; upside down and restless. He sensed she was about to say something, and before she could, Loki reached down a hand and pressed it against her cheek, his big palm covering most of it. “Poor little chilled darling.” He let his thumb run across her lips.

His bride gave a little hiss of frustration, and Loki noted with delight that she was squirming now, her hips rocking a bit. He made himself frown down at her. “Oh does the _pet_ have something to say?”

“ _You’re_ warm,” she blurted, and then bit her lip.

“How dare you accuse me of such a thing!” Loki taunted. “And you did not address me properly either. I see some correction is needed. Roll over.”

It took a moment for his bride to comply; she gave an indignant squeak and shot him a mutinous look, but Loki held his ground and finally she rolled over less than graciously, presenting him with as fine a view as before as far as he was concerned. The long slope of her spine gleamed in the blue light, and the sweet little dimples at the base beckoned his touch, as did the firm globes of her ass.

“Oh my,” Loki breathed, his gaze taking her in. “Do I see the rolling hills of paradise before me?”

He heard her snort into the coverlet and chose to ignore it, far too focused on the simple beauty of her ass. Moving as quietly as a panther, Loki shifted around one side of the bed and leaned down, baring his teeth. He nipped the nearest cheek; a quick little love bite into that sleek skin.

His bride flinched, her shocked yip muffled by the coverlet. Loki saw her body tense up, the long muscles tightening and defining themselves in the low light, and the sight of it sent a fresh surge of desire between his thighs.

“Shhhhhh,” Loki purred. “I have not yet begun to bite.”


	9. Chapter 9

More muffled squealing greeted this, and one hand shot back to rub the little ring of teeth marks that now decorated the rounded summit of one cheek. Loki caught it gently and moved her hand back to the mattress. “Oh no, I think not, pet. Lie still and let me savor the glorious temptation your cheeky self presents. How I have longed to nip!”

He had; the sleek muscle and soft skin tempted him now, and Loki shifted to put a matching ring of light teeth marks on the other cheek, then looked down at his handiwork. A pulse of lust, strong and undeniable rose up and he grinned dangerously. Loki slid one hand between her thighs, palm up, the soft and damp fur brushing against his touch. His bride squirmed, rocking against the contact, but he laid his other hand across her ass, stilling her. “Shhhhh. Glories above, glories below.”

Loki bit again, more firmly, enjoying the feral feel of doing so. He could smell his bride’s arousal now, that hot perfume of salt and tangerine that rose from her skin, and that trickled against the hand under her. Slick, warm . . . He hummed against her skin, feeling her tense again. “You. Are. Ripe.” 

This made her moan a breathy little sound that sent more spikes of desire through his veins. Loki laughed, and moved to part her legs, leaning and trailing his tongue in a wet stripe down one cheek to the ticklish crease between ass and thigh.

“Hhhhhhhhusbanddddddd . . . .” her voice called, low and desperate. 

“Mmmmm,” he laughed and sat up, pulling off his clothing and letting it drop to the floor. “Heat within ice; both burn with equal measure, yet their balance can be tricky.”

Loki watched her turn her head to look at him, and with sheer male arrogance he stretched out on her back, pinning her under him. The warmth of her skin against his cooler flesh felt delicious, as did the flex of her muscles as she tensed.

“Your place here is under me,” he purred, nuzzling her hair, seeking out the rim of her ear. Loki nipped it gently, enjoying the way his bride bucked in protest. “I _was_ your princeling, but you are _now_ my pet; my sweet little bitch in the truest sense of the word.”

At this she gave a growl; not of outrage but of sheer frustration as his cock pressed lengthwise between her cheeks, rubbing gently. Loki savored the sensation, eyes closing blissfully for a moment as he rocked gently against her ass. He laughed at his bride’s little twitches and wriggles, pleased that she bore his weight easily. 

This was no delicate flower, no fragile human without strength of will. She had audacity and cunning and bending her to _his_ desires thrilled him.

“I desire you,” Loki whispered. “I lust for you, burn for you, and will take you strictly for _my_ pleasures; is that understood?”

Another little growl, accompanied by a grinding buck up against him. He reached up to thread his fingers through her hair and tenderly pull, turning her face so he could loom over her shoulder and gaze into her defiant eyes. “You disagree?”

“Am _I_ to have no . . . pleasure?” she hissed uncertainly.

Loki laughed, and moved to lick her cheek as he dragged his body on hers, heavy and aroused.

“Only by my decree, darling bride. Watch me and wait your turn.”

Before she could protest again, Loki gave her a hard kiss and shifted back onto his knees, feeling a thrum of power at the sight of her body before him. He rolled her over, sliding his hands down the insides of her thighs to part them fully. Between them lay the soft wild tangle of his bride’s fur, and within that, the tantalizing pink of her cleft gleamed wetly.

“For want of your quim I would destroy worlds,” Loki muttered thickly. “More than just the madness of the Torden Stein drives me, Cynara my Sigyn.”

He caught her blush, the rosy color flushing across her cheeks and down her throat. Loki smiled down at his bride, all too aware of his cock demanding satiation. He kept one hand on one of her thighs, and took himself with the other, lightly caressing his heavily veined shaft. “As the dark devours the moon and the heat devours the ice, so this dangerous little cleft will entice my prick, demanding my tribute. And I,” Loki sighed pleasurably, “will resist, drawing out the consummation as long as I can, my sweet bitch, letting the heat incinerate us both.”

She moaned at that, eyes dark as she gazed at him, and Loki saw her fight the urge to lift her arms to him. He leaned over her, smiling, his dark hair tumbling down around his lean face. With care, Loki arched himself, guiding his turgid length and barely breeching his bride as the thick head of his prick pushed in. He forced himself to stop there, letting his long hands slide around her hipbones, fingers spreading in a slow grip.

“Morrrre,” she whimpered as she tried to lift her hips. Loki shook his head and watched her, his eyes glittering.

“Not yet,” he told her in a hoarse whisper. “Feel this as it _is._ ” Loki’s left hand let go of her hip, and slowly slid down the contours of that bone to the soft cushion of her mound, fingers tangling in her curls there. “Joined but not fulfilled; breeched but not crossed. Here is the difference between mere animal impulse and oh-so-deliberate _choice_ my luscious pet: this glorious pause.”

She stared up at him in a haze of desire, not understanding at first, squirming for more of him, but Loki bit his lip, forcing himself to keep still. It was difficult of course; his entire body wanted nothing more than to drive deeply into her, to give over to the urgent pangs of lust surging between his tense thighs. Wild heat bloomed deep in his stomach, and Loki knew that _this_ consummation would end in life. Lightly he let the ball of his thumb slide over the little stiff bud buried deep in the slick petals of her sex, his caress as light as he could make it.

His bride drew in a breath, her nipples ruckered and pink now, her fingers clawing the fur coverlet as she gave a low cry of pleasure. Loki flashed his teeth at her, feeling the ring of muscle tighten around the head of his aching prick like a collar. “You like that.”

“I . . . _love_ that,” she managed in a fevered tone. “Please, please, I’m begging you Husband, oh _please!”_

He rolled his lean hips forward, sinking deeper in, and the glorious squeeze made Loki groan, the sound escaping his long throat. The beautiful sight of his heavy prick sliding into her slick quim, of the changeless raw power of this deed stole whatever sanity he still had left. Loki leaned forward, caught his weight on one lean arm and thrust hard as he dropped his belly on hers.

Then the madness of rutting washed through them both, and there were no words, only tastes and grunts and the overwhelming pleasure in union of the basest sort, wild and without shame or apology. His bride wrapped her arms around his shoulders, her long legs around his hips to pull him in deeper. Lips tongue and teeth clashed with his, soft deep wet kisses punctuated with sweet obscenities and nips of silver pain.

It couldn’t last; the lust built within him like an unstoppable wave, rising to a crest so strong it edged on pain, making his stomach cramp and his toes curl as Loki panted. His bride, his Sigyn arched up under him in a keen spasm, the muscles deep within her squeezing his cock until he thought he’d go insane with the thrill of her climax, each shudder a clench of tantalizing delight. Sweat left them both slick, and Loki pressed deeper, bringing his face to the side of her damp neck, lips hot against her skin. “Take what I give you, _fill_ you with, my bride,” he rumbled as his hips rocked faster against hers, pinning her down. 

She clutched him tightly. Loki felt the shockwaves rush through him, quick hard pulses of gratifying pleasure as he grunted, his seed erupting in hot jets deep within his bride, each throb a shuddering delight. He slumped against her, light-headed, a little lost in the aftermath, but the curl of her fingers through the wet hair at the nape of his neck comforted him, and he dozed against her shoulder.

It was a long while before they found themselves aware again, tangled and sticky, damp but well-pleased. His bride ran her hand along the side of his face, her palm fitting against his cheekbone perfectly.

“Husband,” she murmured, holding his gaze. “I feel it.”

Loki sighed. With care he ran a hand down the flat of her stomach, watching his fingers glide along her cooling skin until his palm pressed against her abdomen. He concentrated a moment and gave a slow nod. “As do I. Fate might decree, but love carried out the deed; never doubt that.”

“Fate,” she echoed, her gaze growing bleak for a moment. “I know how _this_ story ends, Loki. I knew before it began. That’s why I didn’t . . . I thought if it never happened . . .”

He turned his face to kiss her hand before speaking. “The story changes. It chips, re-forms, bends and returns, cracks here, splinters there, Wife. The Sigyns of the past had their story as did the Lokis of another age. When the saga begins again, who will know how it unfolds? In this moment you are a stolen bride, but not of Asgard. I may or may not bring on Ragnarok. Thor is neither bound to Sif nor Jane Foster. The Allfather may yet forgive me. All changes, variations, alterations. There is hope, my love.”

She managed a sad smile. “So our son isn’t necessarily going to become a wolf, or die?”

Loki smiled, his gaze brilliant. “No, not this time.”

She sighed again, her finger tracing his lips. “Promise?”

“Yes,” he told her, “this I _know._ ”

*** *** *** 

Barely an hour had passed; Cynara looked out on the same bleak tundra, dimly aware that Grunst had left, but his clipboard was still on the ground along with hers, pages fluttering in the wind. She set Sven-the-free down and he trotted off a few steps, little nostrils flaring against the wind.

“Wife,” came Loki’s soft voice. She turned; he stood in the doorway of the Torden Stein, clad once again in his green and gold leather armor, his helmet under one arm. “You hold the key to this stone, and with it, the key to Ravenscroft as well. This is our home.”

Cynara nodded, and looked up at him, feeling too many emotions as she did so. He was handsome and imposing of course, but there was a gleam in his eyes that she knew was for her alone, along with a certain smile. He slid his free arm around her waist, pulling her close. “I will miss you, sweet bride, but I will return soon, all the better to know our child.”

“You’d better,” she told him quietly, “Because a lot of smelly brown stuff is about to hit the fan.”

“God of Mischief,” he reminded her before planting a kiss. She clung to him breathlessly, and when they pulled apart, Cynara licked her lips.

“Loki . . . _how_ do you know?” she asked, her voice breaking slightly. “How do you _know_ our son isn’t going to die, or become a wolf?”

“This I know,” he told her quietly, “Because you bear a daughter.”

Stunned, she watched him step back through the portal of the stone and even after the rock surface reappeared, solid and covered with Pictish circles she continued staring, her grin wide.  
Cynara turned finally, catching the fresh breeze against her wet cheeks and picked up the clipboards.

She rubbed her stomach through the heavy parka.

“Wow. Okay,” she announced. “We’ve got some plans to make, sweetie.”

Trudging back to camp, followed by Sven, Cynara smiled again, and started to whistle.

end


End file.
